Exactly as You Are: The Life and Faith of Mister Rogers

By Shea Tuttle

Welcome to the spiritual neighborhood of Fred Rogers

“I like you as you are
Exactly and precisely
I think you turned out nicely
And I like you as you are.”

Fred Rogers fiercely believed that all people deserve love. This conviction wasn’t simply sentimental: it came directly from his Christian faith. God, he insisted, loves us just the way we are. 

In Exactly as You Are, Shea Tuttle looks at Fred Rogers’s life, the people and places that made him who he was, and his work through Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. She pays particular attention to his faith—because Fred Rogers was a deeply spiritual person, ordained by his church with a one-of-a-kind charge: to minister to children and families through television. 

Tuttle explores this kind, influential, sometimes surprising man: the neighborhood he came from, the neighborhood he built, and the kind of neighbor he, by his example, calls all of us to be. Throughout, Tuttle shows how he was guided by his core belief: that God loves children, and everyone else, exactly as they are.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eerdmans
• Release date: Oct 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781467457279

Shea Tuttle

Shea Tuttle is the author of Exactly as You Are: The Life and Faith of Mister Rogers (Eerdmans, 2019), coauthor with Michael G. Long of Phyllis Frye and the Fight for Transgender Rights (Texas A&M University Press, 2022), and coeditor of Can I Get a Witness? Thirteen Peacemakers, Community Builders, and Agitators for Faith and Justice (Eerdmans, 2019).

Book preview

you.

INTRODUCTION

Why hi, don’t I know you?

Weekday afternoons when I was a child often found me curled up on the brown, plaid couch in our basement family room, draped in a homely, single-yarn brown afghan, my fingers poking through its open knit. I’d settle in as the opening sequence unfolded: the aerial view of the neighborhood giving way to a zoom shot of the house’s exterior, the camera then cutting inside to the living room and panning toward the front door, through which a slender man entered with purpose, met my eyes for the first time, and smiled. The ascending piano chords, then the song, familiar as a prayer: It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor. Would you be mine?

As he sang, he hung his blazer in the closet and put on a zippered sweater, then sat down and swapped his loafers for a pair of navy canvas sneakers by the time the song ended.

Hello, neighbor, he’d greet me.

Hello, Mister Rogers, I’d reply.

On many of our visits, he’d bring something with him—maybe pretzels, wooden blocks, or a musical instrument. He’d tell me a little bit about whatever it was before getting interrupted by a knock at the door or a phone call, which would often bring an invitation that would take us out into the neighborhood to visit the bakery or the music store, a restaurant or an arts center. Later in the program, once we had returned to the house, Mister Rogers would say, Let’s have some make-believe, and remind me of what was transpiring when last we visited the Neighborhood of Make-Believe, where a motley crew of people and puppets made their way through neighborhood politics, personal insecurities, and more.

Mister Rogers would summon Trolley, the cheerful red streetcar who guided the transition into Make-Believe, and I, from my corner of the couch, would let out a sigh—I preferred the segments of the show in Mister Rogers’s company to the interlude in Make-Believe—but only a small sigh, because I knew that, in just a few minutes, Trolley would faithfully return me to that living room and to Mister Rogers. Then we would sing a little and talk about what we did that day and what we would do tomorrow. We’d acknowledge the wonderful ways I was growing, the good feelings that gave me, and my astonishing singularity in the world. And then we would say goodbye, until tomorrow.

Over the years, I grew out of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I forgot the storylines and many of the songs. But I remembered the man, and I remembered how he and his program made me feel: completely seen, completely loved. I cannot recall the precise origin of my affection for Mister Rogers, and I cannot quite explain its intensity. I just know that he is indescribably special to me; I feel as if I have always known him, like he was a part of my becoming. It is not simple nostalgia, fleeting and saccharine. It is deeper than nostalgia. It is formation. It is love.

There’s a whole lot to say about Fred Rogers, who was a man of complexity—even contradiction. He was whimsical yet disciplined, a gentle control freak, deeply passionate yet measured, strange and beloved. He was, in the words of his friend Tom Junod, a slip of a man—5'11" and 143 pounds—yet had a will of iron.¹ He was, in ways, transparent: for many years, his wife, Joanne, has said of him, What you see is what you get,² and the TV writer James Kaplan once wrote that Fred Rogers in person was more Mister Rogers than Mister Rogers.³ But he was also, in ways, opaque. In 1989, John Sedgwick titled his Wigwag magazine profile of Fred Who the Devil Is Fred Rogers?, and when those who knew him best set out to establish the Fred Rogers Center after his death in 2003, they asked each other, OK, so who the hell was Fred?⁴ In the documentary Won’t You Be My Neighbor?, Fred’s own son says, I sometimes wonder myself how he ticked.⁵ Even Fred’s self-definition is complex. Asked in 1986 who the real Mister Rogers was, he replied, as ever, slowly, thoughtfully: I’m a composer and a piano player, a writer and a television producer . . . almost by accident, a performer . . . a husband and a father. And I am a minister.⁶

A minister. This role was essential to Fred’s complex identity, though he didn’t often foreground it publicly. Faith was a major part of who he was, and it had been from the very beginning. During his childhood, he spent virtually every Sunday morning in church. He planned to go to seminary following college but ended up changing course to work in television. In 1954, while working on his first children’s program, he finally enrolled at Western Theological Seminary in Pittsburgh and began taking courses during his lunch hour. He was ordained a Presbyterian minister in 1963 and given a special charge to minister to children and families through the mass media. Within five years of his ordination, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood was airing nationwide. It’s very theological, what we do, Fred said about the program.⁷

In truth, Fred could have said that about pretty much any aspect of his life. He was a religious person through and through, extraordinarily thoughtful and intentional, and his faith was constantly present to him. He began every day at 5 a.m. with prayer and Bible study, talked frequently with close friends about matters of faith, and prayed each time he stepped onto the Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood set, Let some word that is heard be thine.⁸

When Fred looked into the lens of the camera and spoke to his television neighbors, he offered his most core beliefs without ever speaking of God directly. I’m giving the children myself and whoever I am, he said in 1974.

Anything that’s a part of me becomes a part of the program. My relationship with God, which I feel is very comfortable and healthy, cannot ever be disassociated from who I am on the program, even though I don’t deal in overt theological terms. Our dialog with children constantly includes acceptance of someone exactly as she or he is at the moment. I feel that’s how God operates. Jesus tells us in no uncertain terms that I like you as you are and let’s grow together from there.⁹

Without using the overt language of faith on the air, Mister Rogers relentlessly preached his gospel: you are loved just the way you are. He testified to this love with conviction despite knowing well that not all children live in a loving home (and he heard from many such children, over the years, who thanked him for representing a reality beyond their nightmarish households). He could preach love—and do it with such contagious conviction—because the message was rooted in something deeper than mere affection or transitory admiration: Fred’s own belief in a loving mystery at the heart of the universe that yearns to be expressed.¹⁰ Fred worked hard every day to help express that loving mystery, to offer God’s abundant love without condition to children, parents, Neighborhood staff, strangers on the street, people who wrote him letters—anyone and everyone who encountered him whether on television or in person. He did not do it perfectly—he was as human as you or me—but he did it extraordinarily.

You know, when I decided to look for work in television, I couldn’t possibly have known how I would be used, Fred said in 1994. I’ve simply tried to be open to the possibilities God has made available to me.¹¹

BECOMING

MISTER ROGERS

From Latrobe, Pennsylvania, to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood

1

CHILDHOOD, LOVE, AND FEAR

Are you brave and don’t know it?

Fred McFeely Rogers was born on March 20, 1928, to Nancy McFeely Rogers and James Hillis Rogers, a wealthy couple living in the industrial town of Latrobe, Pennsylvania. Throughout his childhood, Fred was frequently ill, often missing school—sometimes for long stretches. When he was five years old, he spent an entire summer at his family doctor’s house, which had the only air conditioner in town. (The AC unit was a joint purchase by the doctor, who had an asthmatic son, and the Rogers family. The two sick boys shared the single air-conditioned room all during ragweed season.) ¹

Around the time Fred was eight years old, he dreaded going to school. An only child until his sister was adopted when he was eleven, Fred was shy, more comfortable spending time with adults than with children. He missed school frequently because of his illnesses, and he was overweight. He became the target of school bullies.

Most days, the family’s chauffeur drove Fred the few blocks to and from the Second Ward School, but one afternoon, his teacher dismissed the class early, and Fred decided to walk home.² It was not a short walk for a small boy, but it was also not an impossible one: a few blocks, all streets he knew well. He set off first past First Presbyterian Church, where he attended services with his family every Sunday, and then passed Latrobe Methodist Episcopal Church. He looked carefully before crossing Main Street, an artery to the downtown and the busiest street on his route, and then set off down Ridge toward Weldon, the street where he lived.³

Not long after he started walking, between the sounds of passing cars, he heard them—their footfall, a laugh with an edge, and then their voices: Hey! Fat Freddy! We’re going to get you!

He felt the familiar flush of shame, hot in his belly, creeping up his neck, and his heart began to pound. He heard his parents’ and grandparents’ voices in his mind, speaking their usual counsel: Just let on that you don’t care, they urged him. Then nobody will bother you. But he did care. He cared very much. And now the boys were getting closer. He willed his legs to go faster, his corduroy pantlegs zip-zipping against each other as he urged his jog toward a run.⁴

Freddy turned onto Weldon, but he still had three blocks to go—up an incline—before reaching home. With a wave of relief, he remembered that a kind widow, a friend of the family, lived along his route. He prayed that she would be home as he turned up her front walk and climbed her stairs. When Mrs. Stewart answered the frantic knock at her door, she found a flushed, panting boy, his face shining with exertion and fear. She let him in immediately. The bullies gave up and took off, looking for new entertainment, as bullies do, and Mrs. Stewart called Fred’s house so someone could come and pick him up.

But Fred thought about those bullies for the rest of his life. I resented the teasing. I resented the pain. I resented those kids for not seeing beyond my fatness or my shyness, he told audiences sixty years later, marveling at how well he still remembered that day. And what’s more, he said, I didn’t know it was alright to feel any of those things.⁵

Freddy—young, wise Freddy—took on the work of sadness on his own. He cried when he was alone—about the bullies, about his loneliness, about people’s inability to see beyond the outside. He sat at the piano in his home and let his fingers find melodies to express his feelings. He talked to his puppets, and they talked to him. He started to look around him for other people who were struggling, other people who were sad, and he began to see that this included just about everybody—even the bullies themselves.

I started to look behind the things that people did and said, the grown-up Fred Rogers said, looking back, and, after a lot of sadness, I began a lifelong search for what is essential, what it is about my neighbor that doesn’t meet the eye.⁶

At home, Fred was safe and secure. His parents doted on him. Nancy was tender with her son, teaching him the lesson that floods social media following every national tragedy: Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping. His father, Jim, one of the town’s chief industrialists, was a compassionate boss, engaged with his employees and their lives, families, and needs. And though he was a busy man, often consumed by obligations beyond his home, he also found ways to nurture Fred. There’s an old family story which one of my parents’ friends used to tell me, Fred remembered.

She’d say, "You know, Freddy, you were a colicky baby, and you cried a lot. And it was hard to get you to sleep; but, when your father would get home from work, he’d take you in his arms and go to the rocking chair and in a matter of minutes you’d be sound asleep—and he would be, too."⁷

When Fred was six, his grandfather Rogers, Jim’s father, died. During the visitation, when his grandfather was lying in state, Fred found his father on the second floor of the house, crying.⁸ His parents were not typically demonstrative with their so-called negative emotions, so this caught Freddy by surprise. He knew then that men could express deep feelings. Men—even his strong, powerful father who commanded every room he entered—could cry.

Fred’s grandfather McFeely, Nancy’s father, was another important figure in Fred’s childhood—significant enough to be the namesake of the deliveryman in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, Mister McFeely. He was the person who told young Freddy, You’ve made this day a special day for me.⁹ Grandfather McFeely, whom Fred called Ding Dong after a favorite nursery rhyme they shared, also encouraged the overprotected boy to take a few risks. Once, when Fred’s family was visiting Ding Dong’s farm, Fred climbed up on the old stone walls that zigzagged across the fields. His parents cautioned him and began to ask him to climb back down, but his grandfather interrupted: Let the kid walk on the wall. He’s got to learn to do things for himself.¹⁰ Freddy felt empowered that day, and he always remembered how permission to take a risk was a special kind of love.

A sickly, often lonely boy who got teased by his classmates and struggled with his own body could have grown up into inhibition, bitterness, or bullying. Instead, he grew up into Mister Rogers, a man who looked into the camera every day and offered love, affirmation, and security to millions of scared kids in households across the nation. This was, in part, because his childhood was not most defined by those bullies; it was most defined by love: the love of his parents and grandparents first and foremost, as well as the love he received from his church and neighborhood community—a community we’ll visit in the next chapter.

But another reason the bullied boy grew into the gracious Mister Rogers is that he didn’t forget what it was like to be Fat Freddy. Margaret McFarland, a renowned child psychologist and Fred’s teacher, consultant, and friend, attributed Fred’s unique insight into children to his ability to stay connected to his own childhood.¹¹ Fred knew intimately the current of fear mixed with elation that runs through so much of childhood, the electricity of the outside world that makes the return home so very sweet. And so he worked hard, every day of his television career, every time he looked directly into the camera’s lens, to offer something of that home to the children who watched. In the space between his gaze and the gaze of each child watching, he created an intimate world of safety and calm.

Still, being a safe adult for children, in Fred’s view,